Page 9 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

He looked at his daughter, who was dressed in black and white tights, yellow rain boots, and her summer short dungarees over a Hello Kitty sweatshirt. She’d dressed herself and Gus winced. But she was warm and that was all that mattered. There were some hills he wasn’t prepared to die on. His daughter’s fashion sense was one of them.

He watched his kids half-walk, half-run into their small school, grateful they were happy. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

ChapterThree

Ten blissfully quiet minutes later, Sutton, still on the couch, turned her head to take in the details of the living room. The bones of the room were good; it was a large space with another set of French doors leading onto what she thought might be a patio and, from there, a large garden. The couch on which she lay was wide, and deep, and the cushion under her head plump. The two deep chairs opposite her were covered in a bold floral fabric. Behind the chairs was a modern credenza, every inch covered in silver-framed photographs, many were of the dark-haired, blue-eyed man and his curly-haired, angelic-looking bride.

So hewasmarried. Divorced people didn’t display wedding photos. Sutton sat up and wondered where his wife was…why hadn’t she seen her this morning. Was she at the gym, or on a business trip? Was she away looking after a sick parent?

Cute kids, by the way. But more than many handfuls. She was glad they weren’t hers to raise. She’d done her fair share of wiping snotty noses and packing lunches, supervising bathtimes and reading bedtime stories, talking to teachers and refereeing childish arguments. She might be broke and homeless, but at least she only had to look after herself.

Sutton noticed her phone on the coffee table, and she swiped her thumb over the screen, her heart rate increasing when she saw she had messages. She opened the app and her heart fell when she saw a couple of messages from Alex, the oldest of her three siblings. Her brother was studying aviation engineering in the US – he’d been awarded scholarships to study in the US, the brainiac – but he was also more sensitive and thoughtful than the two younger boys. Seeing that it was a reasonable time in Boston, she initiated a video call, and his lovely face appeared on her small screen. Damn, the little boy whose nose she’d wiped was now a man.

‘What the hell happened to your face?’ he asked, frowning.

She touched her cheek. ‘Would you believe I got drunk, fell over and hurt myself?’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘You?’ She understood his disbelief. She was the good girl, the one who never got into trouble while she lived at home and, well, if things happened when she left home, then she didn’t tell them about her escapades.

They caught up for a couple of minutes, but Sutton quickly saw something was bugging her brother. ‘What’s up, Alex?’

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable. ‘I could never get anything past you, Sutt. Mum, yes, but you? Never.’

Well, she did spend far more time with her brothers than her mum did. Their mum worked two jobs, sometimes three and when she did have some nights free, she tended to spend them with her girlfriends, telling Sutton she needed ‘me’ time. That Sutton might need a break from looking after three boys never crossed her mind.

‘I haven’t been home for three years, Sutt, and I want to get home for Christmas. There’s a special on flights from New York to Cape Town—’ God, she knew what was coming and her heart plummeted. ‘I can put some money toward the flight, but—’

But he didn’t have enough. And she couldn’t help him. Not this time. A cold hand gripped her heart and squeezed. ‘Ah,bud—’

She didn’t need to finish her sentence, and resignation crossed his face. He was so used to being disappointed, used to not getting what he needed. ‘Mum?’ she asked.

Alex lifted one shoulder. ‘I asked, but she said no. She went on to give me a ten-minute lecture about how much she’d sacrificed being a single mother, how this was her time, and that she expected us to stand on our own two feet.’

Shit. Sutton pushed her fingers into her forehead, red-hot anger washing over her. Their mum didn’t make big bucks, but she could putsomethinginto the pot. If they all did, maybe Alex could come home. But, because Layla cleaned her out, she couldn’t help her brother get home. ‘Al, I’m so sorry. I would help you if I could, but I’m properly skint at the moment. When I land my new job, I promise I’ll pay for a ticket for you to visit me in London.’

He managed a low, still-sad smile. ‘Mum’s expecting you to pay for hers first.’

She loved her mum, and appreciated how hard she worked and how difficult it was for her to raise four kids as a single parent, but her brothers came first. They always would.

‘No worries, I’ll be fine. But you need coffee and to find your self-respect, big sis,’ he told her, with a teasing grin. ‘And I need to go. I need to hit the books.’

She waved a listless hand. ‘I love you, kiddo, be safe. And I’m not kidding about the UK visit.’

She recognised his I’ll believe-it-when-it-happens look. Hell, she’d probably taught it to the boy.

Sutton disconnected the call and placed her face in her hands. Guilt rolled over her, hot and acidic. She wasn’t his mum, but shewashis older sister, the person he turned to time and time again. He’d been such a good kid, sensitive and mature, and he helped her out by not being as overly demanding as Brynn, or as wild as Jamie. He just got on with whatever was expected of him, and he never, ever asked for anything. It killed her that she couldn’t help him.

And, God, what was wrong with her mother? Why couldn’t she see that being a mum didn’t end when her kids turned eighteen? Her kids still needed her, but she was on her own mission. She’d fed and clothed them, and that was where her responsibilities to them ended. Her brothers were expected to sort themselves out, and they did, with a little help from their big sister, financial and otherwise, over the years.

She shouldn’t be in the UK, why was she on this trip? She was no better than her mum, putting herself front and centre and saying to hell with everyone else. If she’d stayed in Cape Town, she could’ve helped pay for Alex’s ticket home. He was so far away, and being away for so long was hard. She shouldn’t be on a six-month holiday, she should’ve stayed home, employed and financially stable. But a part of her, the selfish, hard part of her, understood her mum’s need to be free, and unencumbered. Her mum had her at seventeen, and birthed three more kids before she was thirty-three. Her mum hadn’t had a life, but then neither had Sutton. She’d given up so much in her teens and early twenties, dating, partying and being a kid, to look after her brothers. She overdosed on responsibility as a kid, and her needs – emotional and financial – came last. These days, she was only responsible for herself, and she goddamn loved the freedom.

The difference between her and her mum was that she was only their sister, not their mum. But she still experienced a healthy dose of guilt for not doing enough, being enough, and giving enough. This trip was the one thing she’d promised herself, her reward for years and years of hard work.

She and Layla had started saving for this trip when they were twelve years old, and they’d discussed what they’d do and where they’d go every month for sixteen years. As per their plan, Sutton spent the first three months travelling around Europe – alone, because a month before they were due to leave, Layla told her she couldn’t, after promising her she could take time away from her businesses. Layla was due to fly in on the 24thand spend Christmas and New Year with her in London. Their accommodation was already booked and paid for, and she’d bought two Oyster cards and a pass to visit all the city’s main tourist attractions. But those plans, like their friendship, were up in the air.

What had Layla been thinking? How could she do this to her? Why did she think it was okay to put her in such an untenable situation? And, because Layla was ghosting her, her questions remained unanswered. If she had the money Layla borrowedshe wouldn’t be lying on a stranger’s couch, trying to gather her courage to squat in a friend’s uncle’s vacant house. Sutton placed her forearm over her eyes and blinked back tears.

Where did they go from here? Even if Layla repaid her—and that was looking less and less likely – would they be able to repair their now bent-almost-broken relationship? Could trust be restored? Layla knew Sutton needed the borrowed money, but she’d ignored her increasingly frantic pleas. She’d hung her out to dry. How?Why?

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